


don't wanna lie here (but you can learn to)

by cafemyg (orphan_account)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Angst, Dirk go to therapy challenge, Earth C, Loneliness, M/M, Trauma, not really post-canon compliant, this is just 2k of him submitting to the mortifying ordeal of being known
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2019-11-23
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:08:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21532744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/cafemyg
Summary: You spent so long wondering if you'd make it past thirteen. Then fourteen, fifteen, so on until you really did die, but just not quite, and in none of the starvation or drone-related ways you had anticipated.
Relationships: Jake English/Dirk Strider
Comments: 5
Kudos: 24





	don't wanna lie here (but you can learn to)

**Author's Note:**

> I havent written fic since 2014 holy shit
> 
> on god dirk bro we're gonna get you some therapy

You hate immortality. 

There was a time when achieving godly status gave you a rush and sometimes, if you focus real hard, it still gives you a little tingle. But mostly it just feels like a contradiction. You spent so long wondering if you'd make it past thirteen. Then fourteen, fifteen, so on until you really did die, but just not quite, and in none of the starvation or drone-related ways you had anticipated.

Laying in bed, you swallow and touch your throat. Death was no longer an inevitability, but it was familiar as hell. 

Now you don't know what to do. You're absolutely stir crazy, oscillating between weeks where you hardly leave your workshop and days spent in bed, unmoving, watching the shadows crawl across the walls as your thoughts and selves crush in on you from all sides. You feel like both the hunter and the hunted, devouring yourself from within until all that's left is a destruction of your own making. 

And that's a death in and of itself, isn't it? The thought puts you at ease. The return of a constant.

How trite. Honest, but trite.

Beside you, Jake shifts. In the sparse years following the game, his complacency has become downright feline. You don't understand how he can be so content, how he doesn't feel the same itch under his skin. He seems happy to hike, explore, party, fight, fuck, as if it amounts to anything more than a pathetic excuse to fill the days. 

At first, you were just happy to be around him again. He radiates joy ceaselessly and it was a welcome reprieve. Much like you had as a teenager, you threw yourself back into him like if you try hard enough, keep him close enough, give into every small whim and stupid idea he has for long enough, that you might find your own happiness as well. That his joy might be contagious so as to soothe the powerlessness that threatens you when you can't keep busy. 

But there was only so long you could keep that up before you grew frustrated with him and his satisfaction. It isn't attainable for you the same way it is for him. It isn't contentment, it's willful ignorance. So you stopped revolving yourself around him. Or, you tried to. A part of you doubts that you'll ever escape Jake's orbit, even if you really wanted to.

You sit up and stretch carefully, as to not wake him. It was protocol after _those_ kinds of nights that you disappear before he has to face you. Everything with Jake is always a performance. Unlike him, though, you never cared much for pretending. Your joints crack in the silence of the room as you stand and dress. You notice fresh bruises and the way your muscles scream at you in soreness and it no longer gives you pause, not after the number of times you've fallen into bed together. 

Because if anyone thought you looked bad, they should see the other guy. 

You shower in Jake's bathroom and wonder when exactly the slivers of softness in your life had fully calcified. Was there an exact moment, or had it been gradual, like an infection? You hardly spoke to Roxy anymore. Dave humored you, but the lingering awkwardness born from two people spectacularly bad at communicating hung over you both. Jane was busy, as always. And then there was Jake.

Things with Jake were hard to quantify, but if there was one thing you knew for certain, it was that he didn't love you. Or maybe he did, in the same combative, confusing way you love him, but that hardly counted. You think you see it sometimes in his eyes when he looks at you, or in the fleeting times where his touch is gentle and yielding. But it always seems more like an echo of a feeling than anything. 

In the blur of days and years, it's those moments that make you more restless than ever. You don't feel much anymore these days, but Jake, infuriatingly, has always had the power to drag out the most lovely and vicious feelings from you. On bad days, you feel like they're one in the same.

If vulnerability was something to be forced, to be beaten against someone and shoved in their face until there was absolutely no confusion to the fact that you'd fight for them, you'd die for them, god dammit you _have_ , then you can't fathom how Jake can't see the humiliating way you rip your heart from your chest and throw it at his feet each time you see him. The frustration fuels the fire and only makes you want to grab him hard by the face and scream _I love you, is that not enough? What more do you want? You're the last thing I have that makes me feel human, I'm suffocating in myself and the only time I feel real is when you touch me!_

But you would never even think of saying anything like that. Admitting to the thought alone makes you feel nauseous. You crank up the heat until the water scalds your skin. 

You hate immortality. You hate godhood. You hate your splinters, you hate the way you ache at the sound of Jake's laugh, you hate that you fought so hard to be with your friends only to end up alone again. Mostly, you hate the pain of it all. The headaches, the heartache, the exhaustion of being stretched at the seams.

All you want is for the pain to be purposeful, and it's not.

You shut off the water after realizing that your skin pruned long ago. It reminds you of your long showers to escape the Houston heat or the days spent diving for scrap metal. To follow up on your previous pretention; perhaps water, not death, could be your new constant. 

Wrapping a lush towel around your waist, you think back to the last time Jake had dragged you away from your workbench. The lake took all day to get to and you reluctantly admit that you could only recall a handful of days in recent memory where you felt as close to sincerely happy as you had with him pulling you through the massive trees, catching each other when you stumbled. 

With a strong hand he pulled you up over a fallen tree and, overwhelmed, you had kissed him. Neither of you talked about it for the rest of the hike. 

But later, sweaty and worn out, he rested his head against your thigh as you listened to the water lap at the shoreline. The small waves were quieter than you're used to, but it still brought back memories of monsoons crashing against the skeleton of your apartment, shaking the rusted foundations, cacophonous over the whir of your mechanics.

You remember the pleasant sigh Jake gave when you hesitantly carded your fingers through his hair. Little moments of intimacy come few and far between for you and as much as you hate yourself for it, you cling to them like a life raft. Jake flourishes under affection like a flower turning to the sun and you wish— _fuck_ — you wish you could give it to him. 

There's mutuality to every biting kiss though, like he knows this is the best you can do but you can see it in him. He wants more from you—needs it, even— and the fact that you love him in the only way you know how isn't enough. He works with it out of necessity, you think. Brutality is an outlet for things you can't vocalize or think too long about without feeling like you've touched a hot stove and you think, just as much as you, Jake needs it too. 

A bite mark is easier to heal than a broken relationship. 

You wipe away the condensation from the mirror and look at yourself. You look into the eyes of a man you've ruined time and time again and you try, desperately, to think of any reason you'd want to heal. 

Was this your life now? Was it so meaningless that the only things you have to occupy your time with are finding new and creative ways to further destroy your relationship with the only man you've ever loved, building some fucking robots, and hovering your finger over Roxy's contact until your nerves make you sick? You would laugh if your urge to punch the mirror wasn't so overwhelming that you feel dizzy from it.

Something needs to change. Something. Anything. 

You leave the bathroom in your towel and nearly run into Jake. He has pillowcase creases on his cheek and his hair is a mess and his smile is sweet enough that you feel like you've been tackled to the ground. He greets you with a yawn and your eyes fall to the marks you left on his chest. You have matching scratches gored across your shoulders that stung in the shower and you think, in a moment of angry clarity, how ridiculous it is that you can leave such imprints on each other's bodies, lives, hearts, and still struggle so deeply to connect. 

As always, you're still alone. The roar of the ocean echoes in your ears and you're drowning after all, universes away and lifetimes apart from the water you grew up fearing.

Jake can always tell when your thoughts get away from you. It makes your skin crawl but the part of you driven half-crazed with isolation relishes in the fact that he can read you. Roxy always said you're not as good at hiding things as you think. His eyes soften and he reaches out to touch your freckled shoulder and it's too much, you're parched for warmth and barely holding yourself up already.

The moment he touches you, you crumble under your own weight. 

You surge forward and kiss him, chest to chest. It's frenzied and earnest and open, as if you're inviting him— begging him— to look at you, really look at you, and see all the things you've been keeping that are rotting you from the inside out. You want to rub it in his face and sit back and say _now you know me, every part of me, enough tiptoeing around. Do you want me or not? Despite everything, do you still want me? Have you ever?_

Jake grips your biceps in shock before sliding his hands to cup your face. He melts into the kiss and exhales shakily into your mouth and you swallow it eagerly, wanting to take any part of him he's willing to offer. He returns the emotion with gusto, basking in it, and brushes his thumbs across your cheekbones. To your horror, you realize that your lashes are damp. 

You break the kiss to rest your temple against his. Without an ounce of hesitation he wraps his arms around you and you feel his sigh, tremulous and relieved, like a great pain has been purged. He nuzzles his head against yours and you go limp.

"I'm sorry," you whisper. For what, you're not sure. All of it, maybe. The kiss. Your relationship. Your behavior. You know you've done a lot of fucked up shit in the past and based on your current trajectory, you're probably going to do a lot worse in the future, but Jake just tightens his hold on you and for a moment that's as good as anything. 

The two of you stand pressed as close as possible for what feels like hours. The constant noise of your thoughts dulls to a hum. It's meditative, you think, and suddenly you realize how tired you are. Running on adrenaline and survival instinct, you've been holding all the pieces of yourself together for so long that you couldn't tell how violently you've run yourself into the ground. 

Now, as Jake tucks his face into the crook of your neck, you feel weaker than ever.

He doesn't stop you when you pull away. His eyes are wide and sad and you feel exposed, flayed alive. His hands linger at your sides and each catching graze of his callouses sets your overcome nerves alight. You manage to put enough distance between the two of you that things start to feel normal again, like the ground hasn't just opened up beneath your feet and swallowed you whole. 

You avoid his eyes. It's too much. You can still feel his arms around you. It's just too much. 

You feel his eyes on you as you retreat— and that's what it is, a retreat. You know you won't talk about it. He probably won't ever hold you like that again, and doesn't that just sting? The wound in your chest gapes and bleeds and you're drowning, still. It only hurts worse after a breath of air. 

**Author's Note:**

> hmu on tumblr @sasukestherapist


End file.
